Adequate as hell
by SetMeFree1
Summary: Sansa is trapped in a marriage she doesn't want to be in, but with the accidental help of her best friend Cersei Lannister she finds happiness where you'd least expect it.


**AUTHORS NOTE**: So Chambered Freedoms was suppose to be a smut piece, but for some reason my creative side took me somewhere else and the smut part just didn't seem to fit in anywhere. I tried but it just wasn't in the cards. BUT Anywho, this is more towards what I had originally intended with CF. I have wanted to write Sandor/Sansa like this for a while now but the setting just wasn't crystal clear for me yet…. Enough with my prattling, without further ado, enjoy.

**Things you need to know**- this is modern day. Sansa is 21. Sandor is around 35. Obviously whatever background you know about these two or the world of GoT is completely different.

Sansa Clegane knows how to throw a dinner party.

She has to give herself that much credit. Her husband certainly won't.

Everyone is chattering around her like bustling hens in a hen house. No one takes a breath unless to sip the expensive champagne Theon, her butler, was ordered to purchase this morning.

The table linens are from the finest shop in east New York; white lace, delicate, and completely unpractical, which just adds to their ridiculousness. Sansa scuffs inwardly knowing she will never use them again. She hates how society has tried to change her and how she must bend sometimes in order not to break.

The silverware is polished to such perfection she can see a few of her summer freckles poking out from under her cover up as she eyes her reflection in her soup spoon. Blasted cover up is supposed to, _well,_ cover up.

Her husband hates her without makeup. He says she looks like a schoolgirl, naïve and dumbfounded and not at all attractive to the kind of man he says she desperately is in need of to groom and train her.

Mentally rolling her eyes to the ceiling, Sansa goes over the checklist in her head one more time. She is pretty positive no detail has been overlooked.

He should be pleased. Slightly incensed at the thought if he wasn't, Sansa suppresses her lack of appetite and forces down a piece of Gorgonzola cheese from the spring salad her and the housemaid, Osha, made this morning.

She chose her evening china for tonight. The gold tipped set she had received on her wedding day. She hopes the guests find the antique but classic design flattering. After all everyone in attendance is here to celebrate her husband's new partnership with his law firm. He has worked long hours and endless weekends for this very advancement. The life altering promotion is not only expected but also required of him if he wants to make district attorney in the next ten years.

She just wishes the arduous sacrifices hadn't been so torturous. Especially on her psyche.

Everyone around her is commenting on the new vase her sister ordered for her at Sax last week. For her birthday. Crystal and ornate through every sculpted crevice and curvature, completely Mrs. Clegane and completely not Sansa.

She sighs refolding the napkin in her lap. Her last birthday was a day she would altogether like to forget.

Twenty-one. Two years married and …and what?

The guest list is fifteen of his closest friends, associates, and their wives. For her, all strangers she nods at and makes vague conversations with at gatherings she'd rather feign illness than attend.

Although Sansa has been living in this city for almost two years now, she still considers upstate New York her real home. Might be the same state, but the city and where she comes from are as different as two separate continents.

Smiling, Sansa pauses, daintily wiping off a piece of spinach lettuce from the corner of her mouth. Someone across the table, Rose Tillian, has mentioned her name in passing conversation but she hasn't listened hard enough to draw in the subject of their talk.

She is tired.

Still wearing her work clothes, a plain black blazer, a black silk cami under it and her, yes, black dress pants and black ballet flats, Sansa shifts in her seat suddenly self -conscious. A flick around the room shouts how underdressed she truly is. She will hear about that later. On the positive side she did remember to refresh her makeup, smudging her eyes smoky, adding some soft pink blush, and doting her lips with clear lip gloss.

Her hair is knotted in a low tight bun from work. Her no nonsense state of mind apparent as a billboard sign. She hates having hair in her face when she is researching. In fact it irks her seeing other people around her office with hair in their face as they work. Her black Burberry glasses slip from her nose and she pushes them back in place, trying but failing to listen to ten very separate but commonly redundant conversations.

Her husband next to her squeezes her knee with a pinch that makes her forget to steel herself from flinching. His stone face sends a warning as he eyes her under a cordial but displeased mask. " Rose is talking to you, dear."

There is nothing dear about his underhand abrasiveness.

Sansa immediately flushes, absentminded and edgy from the threat beside her. " I'm sorry." She shakes her head, turning her radiant smile on like a sticker she glues into place. " What were you saying Rose…my head is still at work." She laughs, hoping her upper crust company can forgive the uncharacteristic impoliteness.

" No excuses now Sansa," says her spouse in jest; the subtext tone is brutally serious, sending icy fear down her spine. He pats the hand with her wedding ring on before turning back to his meal and spearing a mushroom with his fork.

When does he ever tire of correcting her? In two years Sansa has yet to find out. " Yes, of course." The room is a bit stiff from the small awkwardness and being the dutiful wife she strives to be Sansa corrects her mistake, affirming the very person in the room she liked nothing better than to grab a butter knife to and stick in their chest.

"Gregor is right," his name drips from her mouth like the taste of bleach is on her tongue, " my work has made me so rude and scatter brained. Please, do continue your story. I find it fascinating that you saved that much money…at Barneys no less."

Who gave a fuck was what she really wanted to say.

Gregor takes notice of the undercurrent of sarcasm and the dark glare he reveals to her sends a clear message of the wrath to come. He knows what game she is playing and he is reminding her who's in charge. Reminding her she will suffer if she continues with her outright disobedience.

It doesn't matter how much planning and all nighters went into this party. How many threats he tossed her way at meals together like he was asking her to pass him a dinner roll. His constant harping of how this night must go right in order to cement his place at the firm and with his colleagues never slipped far off from her thoughts. He made sure of that.

Everything is life or death to that man. So she knows. Sansa knows she is going to pay because that is who he is.

Winning and dominance is all that matters to him.

Too bad she has gotten to the point, to the precipice of their relationship, where she _almost_ doesn't care.

His unpredictable slaps were her first sign that happily ever after existed only in between the pages of the romance novels she used to read in high school. His infidelities were her _not_ so subtle second hint. By the end of her honeymoon of two weeks she was forced to come to the very real conclusion that maybe, just maybe, he had married her for her name only.

Daughter of Ned Stark, infamous upstate attorney. Small town lawyer who won a few big time cases. He was a city boy she was a country girl and the storybook setting was just something Gregor couldn't resist. Married always looked better to the prospective company you were hunting, gave that extra shine to the resume. With them there was a total of five dates, a pregnancy scare, and one prenup later she was Sansa Clegane, society trophy wife with a penthouse and a barrage of servants to call home.

The whiplash of events left her scattered and hazy like Dorothy as her house got dropped into the middle of Oz.

One fact that has never changed no matter what revolving door of developments come and go from her life- Sansa will never be a trophy wife.

In the beginning she tried so hard. Even after he had slapped her on their honeymoon for not leaving him any hot water for his shower, after he had ogled every bikini clad female his gaze could find. She told herself he just had the jitters, he had been a bachelor for some time and wasn't used to being faithful to one female. He had no family. His parents had died in a car accident years ago leaving him with a brother he never saw and barely talked to.

But after one year in she ran out of excuses.

Biting her lower, Sansa slips her cell from her pocket and hides it under the tablecloth, her thumb whishes past text convos to find Cersei's. She is one of those people who can text without looking at her phone. It's a pathetic gift but it comes in handy when she needs an escape from sniveling dry nights like this one.

**Call me in five seconds. Please**.

Her chest feels tight like a corset's been tied around her, hugging at her ribcage.

The phone goes off, vibrating like a hoard of bees was let loose underneath the table. Her inward smile crescendos as her husbands face drops.

She gulps down a soft apology as she answers." Hello?"

" What's up bitch?"

She pauses for realistic feel. " Ugh…are you kidding me? I put the file right on his desk. With a post it note. How could he lose it! I made sure it was there Friday night before I left work!"

She hears Cersei yawning on the receiving end. " Wow, Oscar worthy. Can I go now? House Wives of New Jersey is on and someone's about to get into a cat fight."

Her exasperated sigh sounds phony but no one is calling her on it. Some of his snotty friends aren't even paying attention enough to look. Not him though. Gregor is raking this over with a fine toothcomb.

She doesn't give a shit.

" Ok..OK..OK…I'll be right there…yes. Ok, I understand. Calm down…yep…yep ok, bye."

"Bye wench."

Pressing the red end button she has the decency to blush. Not because she feels guilty in any way shape or form. Screw that. But because she knows Gregor is probably formulating in his head how he will torment her tonight. Maybe he will get creative like he did for their one-year anniversary and sneak up on her in the shower, use whatever appliances he can find in his state of possessed rage and throw them at her until random body parts are bruised. Until she is huddled up in the corner, a pathetic heap of flesh.

" I am sorry sweetie. The file my boss is working on for his case tomorrow went missing and he needs it for his opening argument."

She knows he hates it when she talks about her job. She is just a paralegal for a small time firm no one who is anyone knows about. They work with inner city kids who went off the right track. She barely gets paid and the hours are crummy but it's the one thing that's hers. The one aspect of her life he can't touch and ruin.

Gregor swallows what he is chewing, patting his mouth mechanically with his linen napkin. " Sweetie of course." His large hand grips her elbow as she stands to make her excuses and leave, " Isn't she something? Just don't overwork yourself babe." He knows she hates it when he calls her babe.

" Remember I'm the bread winner."

Everyone laughs like he is fucking Dane Cook or something.

She snickers and the fake admiration doesn't reach anywhere near her eyes.

" I apologize everyone. Please…enjoy yourselves."

Tucking her Iphone in the pocket inside her blazer, Sansa grabs her clutch purse in the foyer and shoves open the door only to lightly slam it shut.

She presses the elevator button as a breath of relief escapes her.

Later, fuckers. She wants to shout.

She wants but she doesn't. No not Sansa Clegane. She is a lady. And even though in her head she has the mouth of a city bred truck driver, she has never dared to say such words out loud.

What would people say?

The elevator door dings open. Right now, she simply doesn't give a dead rat's ass.

* * *

" Where the hell are you?"

Sansa is trying to squelch the panic evident in her mousy question and is doing a piss poor job.

Leaving wasn't such a good idea. After two margaritas and one SoCo and lime shot the severity of her rashness is climbing against her skull; a migraine that simply will not desist in bringing a skull shattering pain behind her eyes.

" I just parked, Chill." The line goes dead and Sansa exhales, the need for fresh non-smoking air is overwhelming and tonight Lannisters is as smoggy as a closet with ten smokers trapped inside.

Gregor.

She can see the vein in his temple throbbing every time he glances at the empty seat next to him.

What the hell was she thinking leaving? It's social suicide. Plain ol' suicide for her.

Maybe he will divorce her now. Realize she's not worth the trouble and find himself a new pretty little ornament to decorate and perch on his arm like some goddam golden canary.

" Sooooo…" She feels the nudge at her side, momentarily derailed from her train wreck of thoughts. Cersei Lannister grabs the stool and drags it closer to her best friend of one year. " Where's the fire…you sounded like a hot mess on the phone just so you know."

Boy is that the understatement of the century. Her whole life is one big hot mess about to explode out on her like a freaking overstuffed pumpkin. " I left the dinner party," Sansa admits than covers her face like she just declared she dismembered a small defenseless animal.

" Ok…I figured that…so what? It's not like you didn't do everything he asked, excuse me –ordered- you to do. He can go take a flying leap San, the guys a piece of shit little fuck and you stay with him, why? God only knows." Cersei eyes the bartender Jon, gives him a wink, and mouths Dirty Gin, her two fingers flicking in the air quicker than you can say hangover.

Half owner of this place and having a higher tolerance of alcohol than most full grown men, Cersei never does anything half ass. Especially drinking and sex. They could not be more opposite than any two females in the world but somehow their friendship works, the balance a necessary component to their excessive personalities of ying and yang.

Gripping her forehead that feels unusually hot Sansa murmurs, " I'm not drinking anymore. I already feel like crap Cer."

" And you're going to feel even more like crap when you go home and get bullied by your husband." The blonde sweeps her long shiny ponytail away from her shoulder and gives Sansa the paint peeling once over. " You look like a librarian or something…what the hell is this?" She fingers her blazer like it's spoiled meat. " Are you going to a fucking funeral San, come on."

Defensive Sansa pushes her hand away, tears springing out of nowhere. She is beyond exhausted and this, here, a usual guaranteed distraction, isn't doing the trick. " Can you please. Geez, I had to go to the office today to fix some stuff than I went straight to the party _to_ here. I didn't even have time to put my contacts in. I know I look like crap. No need for reminders."

She is covering her eyes and feeling ever so much like the little schoolgirl Gregor berates her to be. The past two years should have made her grow up quicker than most her age. Instead she is feeling resentful and fucking pissed off like a toddler not getting their way.

Cersei huffs out a steadied breath, always the emotional stabilizer. " Listen to me," she says softly, softly for her anyways. " You know you are hotter than all of these bimbos in here. You're gorgeous. But you dress like you're going to church or organizing a fundraiser. Not a twenty-one year old hot piece of ass that can get any guy she wants and should know it. Stop defining yourself by your prick of a husband." She gives Sansa's hand a gentle squeeze before adding, "Plus it's so soap operaish and boring."

After a moment, Sansa composes herself, wiping the moisture beneath her lower lids and clearing the frog in her throat. She chuckles softly as Cersei applauds, announcing that the drinks have finally arrived, than turns to where Jon is mixing a rum and coke and gives him the finger. In Cersei's twisted world that's like a hug.

Twirling her little red straw than poking the olive, she smiles a devilish smile that immediately puts Sansa on edge. Those smiles never lead to good.

" You know what the real problem is right…"

Oh this should be enlightening. " And what's that?"

" You need to get laid." She pokes at the olive again than pops it in her mouth.

Sansa wants to laugh, but the cloud of misery surrounding her life makes the natural emotion a complete impossibility. " Sex is not the answer to everything."

" It almost is…if you want it to be." Cersei shrugs innocently as if this way of thinking is fundamentally normal. She leans in whispering like they are sharing a conspiracy." I bet if you got some you would feel so much better…so much more rejuvenated and alive. It would make you see that stump on a log isn't worth wasting your time on."

Arguing with Cersei would be like talking to the brick wall outside. She never bends, never breaks, basically she stops talking once she thinks she is right. Which is 99.9% of the time.

If she only knew how long it has been since Sansa actually _had_ sex.

" Whatever you say, Cer." Dying for a subject change.

The devil is in those green eyes and for a second Sansa wishes she had called her little sister instead of her. But her sister knows nothing about what is going on with Gregor and she doesn't want to worry her or the rest of her family.

" If I found a willing candidate would you at least dabble with the idea?"

Sansa throws her paper napkin at her, appalled. Mostly. " We are talking about my marriage here. And committing adultery. I'm not going to…I would never think about-"

Flushed at the very idea of another man's hands on her, kissing her and doing god knows what, Sansa growls out a frustrated moan, talking to herself now. " You know what, I shouldn't have come. I'm an idiot. I need to stop running and face things with him before they get totally out of control."

" Right cause that has worked so far." Cersei downs her drink, her eyes always roaming about the room. She isn't technically working now, but it cant be easy coming to your job and not putting that particular hat on when there's a rush of people coming and going. Tonight is Sunday which is usually a slow day, but for some reason it's busier than usual. She keeps swinging her gaze back to the door. Than her attention goes back to her red headed bumbling mess of a friend.

" Gregor cheats on you like it's going out of style. He doesn't even hide it San. What the fuck does that say?"

" Yeah but-"

" But nothing. And the weird thing is you don't even seem to mind it that much." Cersei pauses, her usual brutal honesty layering heavy in her next statement. " I can only imagine what else he does to you…"

Sansa has never told her or anyone else for that matter about the hitting. It was only a handful of times, but the bruises and fear that stayed in their wake will haunt her forever. She knows the cops would eventually get involved and although they can protect her, their idea of protection would never outlast Gregor's vengeance. He would somehow find her. It didn't matter how long he had to wait. His wrath held no time limit.

" Can we please talk about something else?" Sansa shifts her butt back up on the stool. She is itching for her pajamas and a pint of ice cream but she knows she has to go home for that and right now home is her last available option.

" Yeah, lets talk about you getting laid."

"Cersei."

"What's your type anyway?"

" I don't think I have one."

" Good because this guy isn't necessarily a looker but he might be promising in the sack. They say the ugly ones always work a little bit harder to please anyways."

" What the heck are you talking about?" Sansa follows Cersei's stare to the door again. She must have missed some vital piece of information because she is at a loss. "What ugly one?

" There." She jots her chin out imperceptibly, " At the door. We hired him about a week ago."

" Who?" Sansa is on her feet now, her head swinging back and forth like a pendulum.

" For the love of Christ," Cersei pulls at her sleeve, " Can you be any more obvious. Sit your ass down. The bouncer standing at the door! He's fucking huge how can you miss him. He's got to be close to seven feet. I can ask Jon about him, see what I can find. Whenever I'm in he's as a damn mute, but he's got a nice body and the one good side of his face looks decent. He's in all black San, do you really not see hi-…Sansa?"

When she fails to answer her, Cersei pulls harder at her elbow. Sansa is as white as the ghost of Christmas past; her eyes bulging from their sockets and her chest heaving like she just finished sprinting twenty minutes on the treadmill. Cersei's eyes pinch together; worry etching the lines around them. " Are you ok? It doesn't have to be him...he is a bit on the intimidating side...maybe-"

Sansa's head finally whips around as if breaking from a trance. Tendrils of hair are falling out of her neat OCD schoolmarm bun. " Shit. I need to get the hell out of here."

Cersei eyeballs the five feet surrounding them. " What? Why?"

" Because," Sansa gulps, leaning in, her face chalk white except for the smudged red spots she only gets when she is flustered. Which is damn near always. " That ugly one, dear friend, is my brother in law."

* * *

Slapping a hand to table, Sansa grits her teeth, " Why didn't you tell me he was working here?"Not the least bit panicked Cersei smirks sympathetically, her usual nonplussed state fully intact, " He never gave a last name and he works off the books, San."

" Holy crap! What the hell …how the hell? I don't understand what he is doing here!" Sweat is glistening off her forehead and cheeks. The dim light in the bar bounces off her angelic skin, illuminating the surface into a flawless glow. Only Sansa can sweat and somehow look more desirable. Her face is crunched, contorted, and wrinkled in panic, but for some odd reason Cersei can only manage to chuckle under her breath. She is completely and totally amused with the interesting turn of events.

Fine friend she is.

" This is not funny." Sansa glares. Her glare couldn't scare a bunny away.

" Do you know how bad this looks?"

" Oh please," Cersei ticks off, bored with the melodrama. " The man is barely in contact with Gregor. I mean didn't he _just_ make it to your wedding and leave without even saying goodbye?" The validity of her point dissolves some of the worry from Sansa's face.

" Yes, I suppose but-"

" So? This means zip. I'm sure he doesn't even remember what you look like." Cersei fingers the rim of her empty martini glass, her eyes scanning the bar in a preying sort of way. Her search is for a bedmate.

Sansa wishes she could agree with that point but some odd prickling in her gut argues otherwise.

She remembers as clear as if it was yesterday Gregor's brother being at the wedding. He was quiet, withdrawn almost, and had the belligerent scowl of a prison inmate. He didn't have to say the words. **_Fuck Off _**was written all over his face. He was wearing all black than too. Black shirt, tie, the works. But nothing was as dark and predatory as his stare and the leisurely once over he gave her when her new husband, half drunk, introduced them.

The scarred side of his face was blatant like the pink flush that overcame her from head to toe wherever his eyes touched. He didn't say congratulations or bend to kiss her cheek which was usually standard…he just glowered. One corner of his mouth twitched and she made the mistake of watching, forgetting her courtesies. His fingers clenched at his sides as he if wanted to belt her, but there was no malice in his returning gaze. Just something tangible and raw she couldn't put a name to.

She remembered Gregor pushing her towards the other guests; the moment between them passing like turning a page in a book.

The reception was one big party of dancing and drinking. There wasn't a person in their seats by the end of the night. Except Sandor. He stayed over by the bar, on his fifth Guinness. Not that she was counting, but she couldn't seem to break away from wherever he was. And now that she could look back with total clarity neither could he.

There was a force of nature at work. His coal black eyes penetrating, like a finger in an electric socket. She felt helpless under the magnetic pull. Every few heartbeats she would wait, hold her breath, turn and there he would be. His hooded stare a heated current against her exposed skin.

She didn't understand her reaction and before she could muddle through the inner workings of her body he was gone. There one second and vanished the next. Never to be seen or heard from again.

Until now.

Forcing herself back to reality, Sansa bites at her lip in contemplation." What should I do?" Her primary goal is to not act out of character. Maybe there was no love loss between him and his brother, but blood was blood and she did not want to start a war or stir the pot.

Cersei's eyebrow hooked. " Um, act like an adult."

" Cer."

" Put your big girl pants on and suck it up. You ran into your estranged brother in law. So what. Go over, give him a good old- fashioned Clegane welcome and let bygones be bygones. Their war is not your war. Besides," her green eyes twinkle as she appraises him up and down, " the longer I look at him the more attractive he's becoming. Is it just me or are his hands extremely manly?"

" 0h my god. You are the worst friend ever." Sansa grumbles, mildly serious. Biting down on her gums, she fixes her wrinkled suit with a swipe here and there and tries to tuck the loose ends of hair back into her bun.

" Will you stop…your hair actually looks better messy. This isn't 1955 and you're not Doris fucking Day. Give your anal compulsiveness a holiday please."

Instead of listening Sansa sticks her tongue out. Her petulance riding over her embarrassment with the situation. " I'm going to the bathroom. Don't, I repeat, _don't _do anything that we will both regret."

" I'm wounded," she holds a hand to her heart. Sansa is already walking away when Cersei yells, " We're still getting you laid tonight. Let your hair down girl. Men don't fancy the stick in the mud look these days." She glances back to see Sansa trip over the leg of a barstool at her friend's very in character declaration.

Now...on to the next candidate.

* * *

The cool water is a god sent to her fevered skin. She dabs the remaining moisture at the back of her neck, leaving some to keep her body cool.

She wipes most of the makeup off her face save for the mascara and eyeliner, which is a pain in the ass to get off. Doting a bit of moisture onto her chapped lips, Sansa still is not satisfied with her appearance. Younger now. Like a girl playing dress up.

At least she doesn't have any bruises to worry about covering up_._

_Big girl pants_.

Ugh.

Sometimes Cersei could make her madder faster than anyone on this god- forsaken planet. Here she is already battling one huge problem-her ass of a husband- and now she has to deal with Cersei playing matchmaker.

Glasses in place, Sansa inspects the reflection in the mirror and grimaces. She _does_ look like a librarian.

Oh well.

Balling up her paper towel she throws it in the trash and makes for the door.

The door swings open just as she is pulling at the handle and she trips back against the garbage pail than into the wall at the brute force that stampedes its way through without apology. What the…

Black combat boots stop in front of her.

Standing before her is the very man she is dying to avoid. In the girl's bathroom no less. Could her luck be any worse? The bar is packed, overflowing; she could have come and gone without his notice, but of course…unless.

Cersei.

That piece of shit.

Impossibly tall, Sansa has to crane her neck to get a proper look at him. His hair is cropped short, five o'clock shadow that's about a week old on his face and a toothpick hanging at his lips like a cigarette. He says nothing, the rise and fall of his chest and vertical stance the only evidence to suggest he is as alive as her.

She pretends to be surprised to see him. Acting was never one of her gifts but her choices are limited. " Sandor," she smiles warmly. " It's good to see you."

Silence echoes between them. His presence is everywhere in this two stall twenty foot coffin. He doesn't seem to pay mind to the quiet. It suits him like its part of his clothing.

She could do without the piercing intenseness though. She has the urge to scratch her skin. He seems on the brink of something, a wild man about to be let loose from his cage. He bites the inside of his cheek like he is contemplating what to say. He goes with her name, " Sansa," and leaves the burden of conversation at her feet.

Great. " How are you?"

His scoff is as dry as the crackle of a dead leaf. " About as good as you I would say."

His words come at her so fast she reels inside for understanding and an answer to match. Shaking her head she trips out, " What..." than thinks better on starting down a road she can't go. " I'm good, thanks."

" I didn't ask." And he appears mad about what she has said. Polite pleasantries are not his thing. She can empathize with that struggle. Shaking hands and plastering a smile on like some goddamn beauty pageant contestant isn't exactly her idea of a good time.

" Oh …well…I hope all is well with you," she glances at his chest, wishing to explore no further than his shoulders. His chest is wide, like the door he came barreling in on. His skin is tan from outside labor, muscle bulges over his arms, across his shoulders and chest; _this_ brother is all man. And from outdoor work. Something tells Sansa that he didn't attain that physique from going to the gym five days a week.

She gulps audibly. Maybe looking at his chest isn't such a good idea.

" Is that all my sister in law has to say after two years of not seeing me?" The baritone of his voice ripples like the pleasure of an unforeseen kiss.

Her blush is furious and merciless against her milky white skin. Mocking her very goal. Damn it. He's enjoying watching her. She sees his hand stretch at his side, like a tickle under his skin he's been trying to ignore for years. The air around them thickens and he gains even more of an edge by moving closer.

Her bones are wet sand. " You don't have much to say yourself Sandor." Her whisper is petal soft and she licks her bottom lip, witnessing the darkness of his eyes completely eclipse.

" How is my brother?" He grounds out the word brother like a curse.

The huff of breath from her nostrils leaves little to the imagination. " Still your brother."

His one hand comes up to lean against the wall beside her. " That isn't much of a consolation for you than."

He twirls the toothpick back and forth across his lips. " I'm a big girl. I can handle myself," she replies emotionless, transfixed on the toothpick.

" Gregor doesn't need handling. Death is the only thing that bastard deserves and even that should only come after many hours of beating and blood."

So there is no love loss between the two. " You two aren't close I get that-"

" He's the fucking devil girl. And you're a fool to stand here and defend him if he-"

" If he what?" She awakens now, her glare forceful but miniscule against the giant size chip on his shoulder. " I wasn't defending him," she argues, defensive as a cornered kid. " You haven't been in our lives for more than two minutes and than you come here and pretend to know our marriage and what's going on. Don't you think that's a bit ballsy?"

Chucking the toothpick, Sandor leans in, satisfaction beaming like a shooting star across his face. The heat emanating from his stare could start a fire in her black -laced hip hugger panties.

" I thought you were a fighter, couldn't be sure until just now. But I was right. My brother's got a goddamn wild cat on his hands."

" Excuse me?"

His two fingers, twice the size and thickness of hers, loop around a piece of fallen hair from near her ear. The calloused tip of his thumb traces her lobe accidently as he studies the lock like it's an obscure museum artifact. " Never seen quite a color like this. Always wondered if you had the personality to match such a red."

The side of his thumb slides gingerly at the line of her jaw. Her breath comes out a shaky tangled jumble. She breaks the emotional fog with words that have been lost for years down somewhere inside her. " I try to be a good wife," her eyes dart between his "…I try." She nibbles her worries away on her lower lip.

He is caught between her mouth and eyes. " You can't try with Gregor. He'll break you down every way you turn."

He knows. She searches him for mockery or some cruel joke but all she senses is the connection that has just been forged between them. He knows because he has been privy to the same torment.

Toe to toe now his other hand comes up as well, blocking her in, forcing her to break and drown where she stands. Hands that look as if they could destroy and end a life are warm and solid, delicate in discovering every slow inch of her. She is saying things she shouldn't be.

" I'm tired of trying," she wants to surrender, but this is wrong.

She has to be stronger. She has to walk away before she does something she will definitely regret.

His one thumb is on her chin gliding down the center of her throat and back again. Over and over, reeking havoc in the spot between her legs. A shiver cascades down her spine in repetition with his ministrations. Her eyes flutter shut as he speaks to himself more than to her. " I knew you were different. From the second I laid eyes on you," he bites out harshly and for some reason she likes it, "….You didn't belong with him."

One of his hands rips at the bun that took her an hour to do and in a blink of a second her hair is tumbling down in waves at her sides, bobby pins pinging to the floor as they both stare breathlessly at one another.

Naked hunger seeps from his unapologetic glare. Sandor backs away, never taking his eyes off of her as his fingers click the lock of the bathroom door. Before she can inhale he is in front of her, looming over, bringing himself within an inch of her face and the very promise of what she knows will happen next if she doesn't open her mouth and stop this.

" Sandor…"

His fingers bury themselves into her hair, gripping fistfuls as he leans into the crown of her head. His quivering husky voice like a shot in the dark to her frailty, " Say my name again."

Confused she mutters nothing…

" I want to hear my name coming from that mouth." And now it would seem that he is at her mercy. Never would she think that a man such as him would be begging to anyone.

She is biting her lip not to cry out a betrayal that would wreck her life even worse.

So she shakes her head. Holding her breath, not trusting herself to speak at all.

Gripping both sides of her he nudges her legs open and leans in guiding their fronts bluntly against each other. His erection is hard and straining through his black jeans. The surge of his body heat shoots through her as he teasingly rubs himself against her. He gently kisses her earlobe then pulls back to speak. She can tell he is barely holding on. " Tell me to stop and I will."

When she says nothing he grasps her hair harder. " Tell me you don't want this and I'll walk away. Like nothing happened."

Shackling her hands around his thick wrists like manacles, her eyes dart between his two black indefinable orbs.

He rubs his clothed cock a little harder against her this time. Little does he know she hasn't had sex in over a year and he is rubbing right where her clit is. The friction is sweet fucking agony.

" Please…" she whimpers out.

" Please what?" His hands tighten in her hair.

" Please," he won't make another move unless she says it," please…don'tstop."

Like a tiger catching his game unaware, he takes her mouth so quickly, so smoothly she melts instantly into it all, becoming one with him and the kiss. His lips feast ravenously on hers, his tongue aggressive but soft as he draws her in with each crest and fall of their mouths.

She is trying to straddle him and he finalizes the move by gripping her ass with both hands and squeezing her tightly against him, locked like a vice. Her hands are in his hair, her nails raking against his scalp, his beard, his neck. She can't stop touching him. The feel of is his skin is addictive. Firm silk. He must sense her desperation and he matches hers by ripping his shirt over his head.

Sinking his teeth into her bottom lip her whimpers are frantic, hot breathy puffs against his face, driving him stark raving mad. Words spill from her but none of them can be understood as he slips one hand between them and stealthily unbuttons her pants.

Their noses bump and bend against each other's as their kisses grow careless and greedy. Open and abandoned, Sandor kisses her with his whole body. A lifetime of kisses in one simple swoop of lips. His direct gaze, never leaving her, that alone making her wet. She uses her hips to shimmy the pants down to her ankles as he unzips his jeans and lowers his briefs just enough to get inside her.

His cock springs out from him.

_Oh my_.

He is bigger than her husband.

There's a bang at the door and someone on the other side is yelling for entrance but neither of them stop to acknowledge them.

Leaning the weight of his body against hers, their mingled breaths giant in the small space, he lays his cock flat and hard in the corner of her thigh as she nudges herself higher, securing her ankles more tightly against his back. Taking the base of it in his hand he teases her entrance, circling her hole than caressing her clit softly. She instinctively widens her legs for access. Her mouth is gaped open, her arms clawing at the wall above her, wanting the feel of him filling her now.

Grabbing her backside he sinks into her. Not completely. Not yet. Slow deliberate moves to let her know he's there. She gasps, stunned but impatient for more. He is not so willing to comply as he drags each glide of his hips out and in, stalking her every reaction. After a few more languid strokes they easily find a rhythm, the slap of their skins together a slow steady undulating beat.

God help her.

She fucking wants it. The pace is so smooth she could come right here but she doesn't want to just yet. Sandor reads her thoughts even though his face is buried in her neck now and he places her higher, the angle causing the front of his shaft to brush against her clit, a slight bare brush that causes a guttural moan to rip from her lungs.

Soon their rhythm is quickening and he is bucking into her, clutching at the underside of her thighs for more. He wants all of her. His hands, his face, his cock demand it.

" God." She moans. And the bangs at the door grow louder.

" You like that?" He goads into her ear darkly. The slap of his cock into her wet cunt deafening. " Say it," he demands, his two fingers slipping around her clit.

"Wha-"

" Say it." He growls harsher, lapping at the bud so agonizingly slow she thinks her teeth will break from the pressure.

Her jaw locks in place, as he pistons in and out of her, long hard thrusts that make her feel each and every facet of his thick cock. Light bursts behind her closed eyes and a wave crashes and drizzles down her body, inside over and over her. Her face brightens red and she pants as he digs into the flesh of her ass. She is a slave under his spell as she utters his name, " Sandor."

He is right behind her. Two long hard pulls of his dick jerking in and he bites at her neck, groaning. Catching his breath, his legs are shaky for a moment before he completely goes weak against her body. " Fuck," he grounds out.

Both their foreheads are sweaty as he leans his against hers. Their chests are heaving, his fingers indenting into her shoulders as he does a shitty job of composing himself.

Sansa stills. Unable to form a coherent word but "Sandor-"

" WHO THE HELL IS IN HERE?! Open the goddamn door!"

Sansa is ripping at her pants to pull them back up. Her glasses are fogged. Her hair probably resembles a jungle forest. She peeks a look at Sandor as he zips up his pants. She cant read his expression and that further unnerves her.

What the fuck did she just do…?

Licking her fingers she pats down some of the frizzes away, but before she can make any progress his large hand is encasing her wrist, keeping her in place.

" Don't."

She stutters him a quizzical look.

" I like it like that." He states simply, the low timber of his voice is like a lap of his tongue at her g spot.

Unfurling her. Again.

She smiles small and returns to fixing the bustled mess of herself. Eyeing herself in the mirror quickly, panic begins to ebb at what has birthed right here in this room.

The banging grows louder and she hurriedly cleans the spots of fog off her glasses, not noticing how still and contemplative the man next to her is.

She is about to walk past him when he grabs her elbow, forcing her to stand in front of him. She doesn't want to hear that this was what he wanted. She doesn't want to hear that this was a mistake they can never make again.

" Come with me." He says the words so easily, like this was his plan all along, but there's also a weight tied to them. Buried far down, lost and now suddenly found.

Split between a rational adult decision or riding off the impulses she has been clinging to, she shakes her head no and answers him. An unintended smile crosses her lips so fast she doesn't remember even thinking it. " Yes."

And she takes his hand, following him. Where, she doesn't know, but than again, that doesn't really matter to her right now.

* * *

She wakes up with the weight of a tractor-trailer on her. She's naked as the day she was born, laying on her stomach, legs spread eagle and her body sore from a night in bed not sleeping.

Rubbing her eyes mercilessly, she tucks her chin into herself and grabs at the blankets that are near her knees. The sunlight is peeking through the blinds and the brightness makes her wince.

She feels hung over even though she knows that is not what this is.

Switching to her other side and away from the obnoxious sun, she peeks a look at the plain red numbers on the desk clock next to the bed.

Her glasses are right where she left them. Her arm blindly reaches out and finds them, knowing they are as necessary to her as her underwear, whose location is questionable at this point. Placing them lopsided on her face she freezes as she reads the time. The digital numbers blare out 8:30am and Sansa goes numb. She is royally fucked.

Great. Not only did she singlehandedly light a match to her marriage but she is probably going to be reprimanded if not suspended at work now. Work starts at 9 am and there is no way she is going to make it home to shower, dress, and commute twenty blocks in time. She can't wear her clothes from yesterday because Sandor ripped her cami in two when they had barely made into his apartment.

She needs water.

Her mouth is parched. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

She lost more fluids than she can recount. A simple glass of water would be an encouraging sign to her crappy start.

She huffs out an agitated breath. This isn't her. This isn't the type of thing she does. But than why did it feel so right to leave with him. Taking his hand and following him out of that bathroom, that bar, was like coming home, to a place she always wanted but never knew she could have.

" Hey."

Leaning against the frame of his bedroom door, Sandor is quiet. Emotions tucked away neatly. All impervious male and she is instantly nervous. In a good and bad way.

Eased confidence exudes him. Where she is on edge he is as cool as ice and just as hard to get grasp. His hands are folded over his chest, one leg crossed over the other. A ghost of a smile on his lips. The man is thoroughly pleased with himself.

She wants to roll her eyes or better yet throw the clock at his head but none of those things will erase her actions of last night…and early this morning.

Four times.

Four freaking times.

Straightening her glasses, Sansa turns over, pulls the blankets up until just her bare shoulders are peaking out." Hello." Her voice sounds funny to her ears, too formal to a man who had his tongue in between her legs just three hours ago. She turns the color of a flowered rose at the remembrance.

As if he can read her thoughts, his face becomes rigid like stone, weak restraint holding his actions in check.

Tentatively he comes to sit beside her on the bed. She doesn't trust him or more accurately she doesn't trust herself with him. So she sits up straighter, shifting so everything is in place. Propriety is still achievable if she could just make some sense of what to do next.

He places a glass of water on the end table that stands beside the bed and she can tell he is stifling a grin now. " What?" she shoots out, angry and hating how childish she sounds.

He shrugs easily. " It's not like I haven't seen you naked…"

" It doesn't matter," she cuts through like she's scolding him.

Sandor's having none of it. " Every which way of you," he taunts. If his goal is getting under her skin he is winning by a landslide.

Her nostrils flare defiantly. " Happy? Great. Now can you leave so I can get dressed and get out of here."

Not impressed, his lips purse in a vague unreadable way that makes her fingers curl into a handful of sheets. " You can go."

She nods agreeably. Than blinks unsure at him.

" But you'll be back."

She pushes hard at the glasses on her face. Sansa knows better than to fall for his obvious bait. He wants to get a rise out of her so he can…can what? He's had her, what mystery is left? Why was he at the bar? Was it a set up, has he always wanted this here…her…them together?

The only words that she can formulate without dry heaving onto the floor is, " You don't want this."

At first she isn't sure he has heard her. He shows no sign he means to respond. His hands are clasped together loosely, dangling from his lap and she is blatantly staring. Cersei is right. They are manly hands…who knew just looking and knowing the very things he did to her with them could make her wet right there where she sat.

" I want you," he lowly rasps out.

" No …you can't. You don't." His admission ricochets through her brain, settling somewhere in her chest. She crackles out a question without much forethought." Since when?"

Again he is pensive. Careful. This isn't a man who wears his heart anywhere near his sleeve. His rancor voice breaks past some sort of barrier. " Since I first saw you."

The underlying pride in his answer coupled with his now mercenary appearance exceeds any so -called confession.

She even senses a slip of resentment toward her for making him go there. She doesn't care though. She's in this boat with him. Sink or swim she wants all the cards out on the table. " Why…why me. I'm m-married-"

He glares at her, hatred tearing at his features, one that has her teeth snapping shut with a click. " You think I give a shit."

" I-I…" She is trembling, holding the sheets like they have the ability to resist the traps he is setting. " Sandor…"

" I want you. All of you. Every lush perfect inch," he spits out, grabbing her shoulders, leaning in closer. " This, here, is fucking real. More real than any goddamn paper that says your married to Gregor."

No one's ever talked to her that way. Gregor is cruel. But entirely cruel, his words as cutting as his tone. Cersei delivers her truths with a sort of harsh bounce, but there is care underlying each and every syllable. Whether Sansa follows her advice or not, Cersei is there, thick or thin, good times or bad.

Sandor is…is what…all hard planes and soft angles. There is one night of experience between them, not enough memories to fill the page of a diary but, now, watching him, removes all doubt. The truth of his feelings is palpable in the wake of his admission.

Her fist unclenches in release and her fingers inch over to where his lay, right between their two tense bodies. She slides her hand between his and he makes no effort to finish what she is trying to start.

" We have a lot to figure out," he roughly announces. She smiles his way but he is unmoving, deathly serious. Suddenly she knows he means her marriage to Gregor and she locks up, letting him go and folding back up like a scared clam being circled by a shark.

She doesn't get very far. Sandor is quick, easily predicting her stonewalling and he latches on to her retreating hand, dragging the pad of his thumb over her knuckles.

" When you're ready." The rise and fall of her body speeds up. She should want to jet out of here, but when she gazes at him, she sees no pressure, no timing to his request. He is not his brother.

Sansa wants to smile at the relief that floods her but she doesn't. She's afraid. Afraid to screw this up. To try. " I-I-"

His head is down, staring at some nonexistent nothing on the wood floor. " I know what he must have done to you. I know him."

Reflex kicks in and she's withdrawing, pulling at their clasped hands, but he won't have it. " Don't," he says as if the thought physically bruises him." Don't do that."

The stillness crowds them. She doesn't want to talk but some ignored emotion elbows for freedom. This is where her trademark shutdown makes an appearance and she places some sturdy mask on or creates some character to play like putting on a costume. None of it is her. She doesn't even know who she really is without the identity of wife or daughter attached.

The rough side of his thumb is swishing at her knuckles in a comfortingly hypnotic way. She doesn't want to run from this.

His hand squeezes warmly around hers, feeling almost like his arms wrapping around her body, before he pulls away and states simply " I'm making some breakfast. Come out when you want." He doesn't smile or say the subject is officially dropped. Being as consistent as a weather prediction Sansa isn't sure what to expect as he walks out the room with only a gleam of his eyes as her assurance that everything would be okay. He is not stopping this, here, and he doesn't want her to either.

She doesn't even have time to process what happens. Whisper of a Thrill, her ringtone, is blaring from somewhere on the floor. She doesn't know how her cell phone got there and she doesn't want to. Wrapping the sheets around her she bends down and finds her Iphone underneath Sandor's bed.

Dear lord in heaven.

With mild exertion and a few accidental slips of her sheet she finally reaches it, the cell says Cersei is calling and Sansa swipes the unlock bar hastily,

" Well, hello there. _Friend._" She hates how happy sounds. She was going more for hostile but it seems an impossible task at the present time.

" You little slut," Sansa can vividly picture Cersei's cheshire cat smile spread wide. " I knew you had it in you."

Her cheeks bloom scarlet like intimate writings painted on her skin. She is at a crossroads. Gush away or let her suffer. She goes for the unspoken third choice. " I'm gonna kill you. How could you tell him to come into the bathroom…I can only imagine what you said to-"

" Whoa whoa…what the hell are you talking about?"

" Cer, give me a break. You don't think I know what you did." Her elbow is on her hip. Attitude winning out in her tone. She isn't even mad. She should be squealing an incoherent thank you, but her pride has nasty timing. " I'm not mad, I just want the truth," she tries to rectify.

There is a clearing of her throat before the blonde decides to squash the mystery, " I didn't approach him San. I swear on a stake of bibles. I never went up to him." There's a pause before she continues haughtily, " Honestly I thought you couldn't handle someone one like him. I was going to hook you up with Jon."

Yeah ok. " Why would you do that when you have a thing for him?" she accents the end in a tease that she knows will make Cersei dig her nails into her skin.

" You're a bitch…and I hate you." Her tone holds a smile.

Her best friend will never admit it and Sansa isn't going to push her luck, at least not today. " I love you too dearest."

" Now," Cersei pushes the issue of Jon away and settles in for the kill, " the more important question is… how good was it?"

" Cer. Please. Stop." She bites down hard not to grin. Cersei can smell weakness within a city mile.

" You know I'm not going to stop until you tell me. I can just see you now grinning like some dumb fool from a Nicholas Spark's movie. Now freaking spill."

Sansa hears the floor near the bedroom entrance creak. Awareness tingles the air, swirling like an invisible tornado. She shrugs her shoulders, " Adequate."

" What?"

Biting her gums, Sansa fidgets with the urge to be herself and puts on a more Cersei- like stance. " It was fine. Pretty much what you'd expect."

She's not buying it, " Adequate? Fine?"

" Mhm," Sansa confirms, the floor creaking again. Louder and closer this time. " I gotta go Cer. Call you later." And Sansa hangs up before she can change her mind.

She will definitely call later. After all Cersei is the one who inadvertently got them to the place they are in.

But, well, some things are just no one's damn business.

Besides, for once, she likes having the upper hand.

Sansa smiles, hugging the sheets tighter around her. The kitchen sink water is running, the air smells like bacon, and some eighties band is playing in the background. Her stomach gurgles in response as she turns…. suddenly very hungry.

Sansa Clegane knows how to throw a dinner party.

She has to give herself that much credit. Her husband certainly won't.

Everyone is chattering around her like bustling hens in a hen house. No one takes a breath unless to sip the expensive champagne Theon, her butler, was ordered to purchase this morning.

The table linens are from the finest shop in east New York; white lace, delicate, and completely unpractical, which just adds to their ridiculousness. Sansa scuffs inwardly knowing she will never use them again. She hates how society has tried to change her and how she must bend sometimes in order not to break.

The silverware is polished to such perfection she can see a few of her summer freckles poking out from under her cover up as she eyes her reflection in her soup spoon. Blasted cover up is supposed to, _well,_ cover up.

Her husband hates her without makeup. He says she looks like a schoolgirl, naïve and dumbfounded and not at all attractive to the kind of man he says she desperately is in need of to groom and train her.

Mentally rolling her eyes to the ceiling, Sansa goes over the checklist in her head one more time. She is pretty positive no detail has been overlooked.

He should be pleased. Slightly incensed at the thought if he wasn't, Sansa suppresses her lack of appetite and forces down a piece of Gorgonzola cheese from the spring salad her and the housemaid, Osha, made this morning.

She chose her evening china for tonight. The gold tipped set she had received on her wedding day. She hopes the guests find the antique but classic design flattering. After all everyone in attendance is here to celebrate her husband's new partnership with his law firm. He has worked long hours and endless weekends for this very advancement. The life altering promotion is not only expected but also required of him if he wants to make district attorney in the next ten years.

She just wishes the arduous sacrifices hadn't been so torturous. Especially on her psyche.

Everyone around her is commenting on the new vase her sister ordered for her at Sax last week. For her birthday. Crystal and ornate through every sculpted crevice and curvature, completely Mrs. Clegane and completely not Sansa.

She sighs refolding the napkin in her lap. Her last birthday was a day she would altogether like to forget.

Twenty-one. Two years married and …and what?

The guest list is fifteen of his closest friends, associates, and their wives. For her, all strangers she nods at and makes vague conversations with at gatherings she'd rather feign illness than attend.

Although Sansa has been living in this city for almost two years now, she still considers upstate New York her real home. Might be the same state, but the city and where she comes from are as different as two separate continents.

Smiling, Sansa pauses, daintily wiping off a piece of spinach lettuce from the corner of her mouth. Someone across the table, Rose Tillian, has mentioned her name in passing conversation but she hasn't listened hard enough to draw in the subject of their talk.

She is tired.

Still wearing her work clothes, a plain black blazer, a black silk cami under it and her, yes, black dress pants and black ballet flats, Sansa shifts in her seat suddenly self -conscious. A flick around the room shouts how underdressed she truly is. She will hear about that later. On the positive side she did remember to refresh her makeup, smudging her eyes smoky, adding some soft pink blush, and doting her lips with clear lip gloss.

Her hair is knotted in a low tight bun from work. Her no nonsense state of mind apparent as a billboard sign. She hates having hair in her face when she is researching. In fact it irks her seeing other people around her office with hair in their face as they work. Her black Burberry glasses slip from her nose and she pushes them back in place, trying but failing to listen to ten very separate but commonly redundant conversations.

Her husband next to her squeezes her knee with a pinch that makes her forget to steel herself from flinching. His stone face sends a warning as he eyes her under a cordial but displeased mask. " Rose is talking to you, dear."

There is nothing dear about his underhand abrasiveness.

Sansa immediately flushes, absentminded and edgy from the threat beside her. " I'm sorry." She shakes her head, turning her radiant smile on like a sticker she glues into place. " What were you saying Rose…my head is still at work." She laughs, hoping her upper crust company can forgive the uncharacteristic impoliteness.

" No excuses now Sansa," says her spouse in jest; the subtext tone is brutally serious, sending icy fear down her spine. He pats the hand with her wedding ring on before turning back to his meal and spearing a mushroom with his fork.

When does he ever tire of correcting her? In two years Sansa has yet to find out. " Yes, of course." The room is a bit stiff from the small awkwardness and being the dutiful wife she strives to be Sansa corrects her mistake, affirming the very person in the room she liked nothing better than to grab a butter knife to and stick in their chest.

"Gregor is right," his name drips from her mouth like the taste of bleach is on her tongue, " my work has made me so rude and scatter brained. Please, do continue your story. I find it fascinating that you saved that much money…at Barneys no less."

Who gave a fuck was what she really wanted to say.

Gregor takes notice of the undercurrent of sarcasm and the dark glare he reveals to her sends a clear message of the wrath to come. He knows what game she is playing and he is reminding her who's in charge. Reminding her she will suffer if she continues with her outright disobedience.

It doesn't matter how much planning and all nighters went into this party. How many threats he tossed her way at meals together like he was asking her to pass him a dinner roll. His constant harping of how this night must go right in order to cement his place at the firm and with his colleagues never slipped far off from her thoughts. He made sure of that.

Everything is life or death to that man. So she knows. Sansa knows she is going to pay because that is who he is.

Winning and dominance is all that matters to him.

Too bad she has gotten to the point, to the precipice of their relationship, where she _almost_ doesn't care.

His unpredictable slaps were her first sign that happily ever after existed only in between the pages of the romance novels she used to read in high school. His infidelities were her _not_ so subtle second hint. By the end of her honeymoon of two weeks she was forced to come to the very real conclusion that maybe, just maybe, he had married her for her name only.

Daughter of Ned Stark, infamous upstate attorney. Small town lawyer who won a few big time cases. He was a city boy she was a country girl and the storybook setting was just something Gregor couldn't resist. Married always looked better to the prospective company you were hunting, gave that extra shine to the resume. With them there was a total of five dates, a pregnancy scare, and one prenup later she was Sansa Clegane, society trophy wife with a penthouse and a barrage of servants to call home.

The whiplash of events left her scattered and hazy like Dorothy as her house got dropped into the middle of Oz.

One fact that has never changed no matter what revolving door of developments come and go from her life- Sansa will never be a trophy wife.

In the beginning she tried so hard. Even after he had slapped her on their honeymoon for not leaving him any hot water for his shower, after he had ogled every bikini clad female his gaze could find. She told herself he just had the jitters, he had been a bachelor for some time and wasn't used to being faithful to one female. He had no family. His parents had died in a car accident years ago leaving him with a brother he never saw and barely talked to.

But after one year in she ran out of excuses.

Biting her lower, Sansa slips her cell from her pocket and hides it under the tablecloth, her thumb whishes past text convos to find Cersei's. She is one of those people who can text without looking at her phone. It's a pathetic gift but it comes in handy when she needs an escape from sniveling dry nights like this one.

**Call me in five seconds. Please**.

Her chest feels tight like a corset's been tied around her, hugging at her ribcage.

The phone goes off, vibrating like a hoard of bees was let loose underneath the table. Her inward smile crescendos as her husbands face drops.

She gulps down a soft apology as she answers." Hello?"

" What's up bitch?"

She pauses for realistic feel. " Ugh…are you kidding me? I put the file right on his desk. With a post it note. How could he lose it! I made sure it was there Friday night before I left work!"

She hears Cersei yawning on the receiving end. " Wow, Oscar worthy. Can I go now? House Wives of New Jersey is on and someone's about to get into a cat fight."

Her exasperated sigh sounds phony but no one is calling her on it. Some of his snotty friends aren't even paying attention enough to look. Not him though. Gregor is raking this over with a fine toothcomb.

She doesn't give a shit.

" Ok..OK..OK…I'll be right there…yes. Ok, I understand. Calm down…yep…yep ok, bye."

"Bye wench."

Pressing the red end button she has the decency to blush. Not because she feels guilty in any way shape or form. Screw that. But because she knows Gregor is probably formulating in his head how he will torment her tonight. Maybe he will get creative like he did for their one-year anniversary and sneak up on her in the shower, use whatever appliances he can find in his state of possessed rage and throw them at her until random body parts are bruised. Until she is huddled up in the corner, a pathetic heap of flesh.

" I am sorry sweetie. The file my boss is working on for his case tomorrow went missing and he needs it for his opening argument."

She knows he hates it when she talks about her job. She is just a paralegal for a small time firm no one who is anyone knows about. They work with inner city kids who went off the right track. She barely gets paid and the hours are crummy but it's the one thing that's hers. The one aspect of her life he can't touch and ruin.

Gregor swallows what he is chewing, patting his mouth mechanically with his linen napkin. " Sweetie of course." His large hand grips her elbow as she stands to make her excuses and leave, " Isn't she something? Just don't overwork yourself babe." He knows she hates it when he calls her babe.

" Remember I'm the bread winner."

Everyone laughs like he is fucking Dane Cook or something.

She snickers and the fake admiration doesn't reach anywhere near her eyes.

" I apologize everyone. Please…enjoy yourselves."

Tucking her Iphone in the pocket inside her blazer, Sansa grabs her clutch purse in the foyer and shoves open the door only to lightly slam it shut.

She presses the elevator button as a breath of relief escapes her.

Later, fuckers. She wants to shout.

She wants but she doesn't. No not Sansa Clegane. She is a lady. And even though in her head she has the mouth of a city bred truck driver, she has never dared to say such words out loud.

What would people say?

The elevator door dings open. Right now, she simply doesn't give a dead rat's ass.

" Where the hell are you?"

Sansa is trying to squelch the panic evident in her mousy question and is doing a piss poor job.

Leaving wasn't such a good idea. After two margaritas and one SoCo and lime shot the severity of her rashness is climbing against her skull; a migraine that simply will not desist in bringing a skull shattering pain behind her eyes.

" I just parked, Chill." The line goes dead and Sansa exhales, the need for fresh non-smoking air is overwhelming and tonight Lannisters is as smoggy as a closet with ten smokers trapped inside.

Gregor.

She can see the vein in his temple throbbing every time he glances at the empty seat next to him.

What the hell was she thinking leaving? It's social suicide. Plain ol' suicide for her.

Maybe he will divorce her now. Realize she's not worth the trouble and find himself a new pretty little ornament to decorate and perch on his arm like some goddam golden canary.

" Sooooo…" She feels the nudge at her side, momentarily derailed from her train wreck of thoughts. Cersei Lannister grabs the stool and drags it closer to her best friend of one year. " Where's the fire…you sounded like a hot mess on the phone just so you know."

Boy is that the understatement of the century. Her whole life is one big hot mess about to explode out on her like a freaking overstuffed pumpkin. " I left the dinner party," Sansa admits than covers her face like she just declared she dismembered a small defenseless animal.

" Ok…I figured that…so what? It's not like you didn't do everything he asked, excuse me –ordered- you to do. He can go take a flying leap San, the guys a piece of shit little fuck and you stay with him, why? God only knows." Cersei eyes the bartender Jon, gives him a wink, and mouths Dirty Gin, her two fingers flicking in the air quicker than you can say hangover.

Half owner of this place and having a higher tolerance of alcohol than most full grown men, Cersei never does anything half ass. Especially drinking and sex. They could not be more opposite than any two females in the world but somehow their friendship works, the balance a necessary component to their excessive personalities of ying and yang.

Gripping her forehead that feels unusually hot Sansa murmurs, " I'm not drinking anymore. I already feel like crap Cer."

" And you're going to feel even more like crap when you go home and get bullied by your husband." The blonde sweeps her long shiny ponytail away from her shoulder and gives Sansa the paint peeling once over. " You look like a librarian or something…what the hell is this?" She fingers her blazer like it's spoiled meat. " Are you going to a fucking funeral San, come on."

Defensive Sansa pushes her hand away, tears springing out of nowhere. She is beyond exhausted and this, here, a usual guaranteed distraction, isn't doing the trick. " Can you please. Geez, I had to go to the office today to fix some stuff than I went straight to the party _to_ here. I didn't even have time to put my contacts in. I know I look like crap. No need for reminders."

She is covering her eyes and feeling ever so much like the little schoolgirl Gregor berates her to be. The past two years should have made her grow up quicker than most her age. Instead she is feeling resentful and fucking pissed off like a toddler not getting their way.

Cersei huffs out a steadied breath, always the emotional stabilizer. " Listen to me," she says softly, softly for her anyways. " You know you are hotter than all of these bimbos in here. You're gorgeous. But you dress like you're going to church or organizing a fundraiser. Not a twenty-one year old hot piece of ass that can get any guy she wants and should know it. Stop defining yourself by your prick of a husband." She gives Sansa's hand a gentle squeeze before adding, "Plus it's so soap operaish and boring."

After a moment, Sansa composes herself, wiping the moisture beneath her lower lids and clearing the frog in her throat. She chuckles softly as Cersei applauds, announcing that the drinks have finally arrived, than turns to where Jon is mixing a rum and coke and gives him the finger. In Cersei's twisted world that's like a hug.

Twirling her little red straw than poking the olive, she smiles a devilish smile that immediately puts Sansa on edge. Those smiles never lead to good.

" You know what the real problem is right…"

Oh this should be enlightening. " And what's that?"

" You need to get laid." She pokes at the olive again than pops it in her mouth.

Sansa wants to laugh, but the cloud of misery surrounding her life makes the natural emotion a complete impossibility. " Sex is not the answer to everything."

" It almost is…if you want it to be." Cersei shrugs innocently as if this way of thinking is fundamentally normal. She leans in whispering like they are sharing a conspiracy." I bet if you got some you would feel so much better…so much more rejuvenated and alive. It would make you see that stump on a log isn't worth wasting your time on."

Arguing with Cersei would be like talking to the brick wall outside. She never bends, never breaks, basically she stops talking once she thinks she is right. Which is 99.9% of the time.

If she only knew how long it has been since Sansa actually _had_ sex.

" Whatever you say, Cer." Dying for a subject change.

The devil is in those green eyes and for a second Sansa wishes she had called her little sister instead of her. But her sister knows nothing about what is going on with Gregor and she doesn't want to worry her or the rest of her family.

" If I found a willing candidate would you at least dabble with the idea?"

Sansa throws her paper napkin at her, appalled. Mostly. " We are talking about my marriage here. And committing adultery. I'm not going to…I would never think about-"

Flushed at the very idea of another man's hands on her, kissing her and doing god knows what, Sansa growls out a frustrated moan, talking to herself now. " You know what, I shouldn't have come. I'm an idiot. I need to stop running and face things with him before they get totally out of control."

" Right cause that has worked so far." Cersei downs her drink, her eyes always roaming about the room. She isn't technically working now, but it cant be easy coming to your job and not putting that particular hat on when there's a rush of people coming and going. Tonight is Sunday which is usually a slow day, but for some reason it's busier than usual. She keeps swinging her gaze back to the door. Than her attention goes back to her red headed bumbling mess of a friend.

" Gregor cheats on you like it's going out of style. He doesn't even hide it San. What the fuck does that say?"

" Yeah but-"

" But nothing. And the weird thing is you don't even seem to mind it that much." Cersei pauses, her usual brutal honesty layering heavy in her next statement. " I can only imagine what else he does to you…"

Sansa has never told her or anyone else for that matter about the hitting. It was only a handful of times, but the bruises and fear that stayed in their wake will haunt her forever. She knows the cops would eventually get involved and although they can protect her, their idea of protection would never outlast Gregor's vengeance. He would somehow find her. It didn't matter how long he had to wait. His wrath held no time limit.

" Can we please talk about something else?" Sansa shifts her butt back up on the stool. She is itching for her pajamas and a pint of ice cream but she knows she has to go home for that and right now home is her last available option.

" Yeah, lets talk about you getting laid."

"Cersei."

"What's your type anyway?"

" I don't think I have one."

" Good because this guy isn't necessarily a looker but he might be promising in the sack. They say the ugly ones always work a little bit harder to please anyways."

" What the heck are you talking about?" Sansa follows Cersei's stare to the door again. She must have missed some vital piece of information because she is at a loss. "What ugly one?

" There." She jots her chin out imperceptibly, " At the door. We hired him about a week ago."

" Who?" Sansa is on her feet now, her head swinging back and forth like a pendulum.

" For the love of Christ," Cersei pulls at her sleeve, " Can you be any more obvious. Sit your ass down. The bouncer standing at the door! He's fucking huge how can you miss him. He's got to be close to seven feet. I can ask Jon about him, see what I can find. Whenever I'm in he's as a damn mute, but he's got a nice body and the one good side of his face looks decent. He's in all black San, do you really not see hi-…Sansa?"

When she fails to answer her, Cersei pulls harder at her elbow. Sansa is as white as the ghost of Christmas past; her eyes bulging from their sockets and her chest heaving like she just finished sprinting twenty minutes on the treadmill. Cersei's eyes pinch together; worry etching the lines around them. " Are you ok? It doesn't have to be him...he is a bit on the intimidating side...maybe-"

Sansa's head finally whips around as if breaking from a trance. Tendrils of hair are falling out of her neat OCD schoolmarm bun. " Shit. I need to get the hell out of here."

Cersei eyeballs the five feet surrounding them. " What? Why?"

" Because," Sansa gulps, leaning in, her face chalk white except for the smudged red spots she only gets when she is flustered. Which is damn near always. " That ugly one, dear friend, is my brother in law."

Slapping a hand to table, Sansa grits her teeth, " Why didn't you tell me he was working here?"

Not the least bit panicked Cersei smirks sympathetically, her usual nonplussed state fully intact, " He never gave a last name and he works off the books, San."

" Holy crap! What the hell …how the hell? I don't understand what he is doing here!" Sweat is glistening off her forehead and cheeks. The dim light in the bar bounces off her angelic skin, illuminating the surface into a flawless glow. Only Sansa can sweat and somehow look more desirable. Her face is crunched, contorted, and wrinkled in panic, but for some odd reason Cersei can only manage to chuckle under her breath. She is completely and totally amused with the interesting turn of events.

Fine friend she is.

" This is not funny." Sansa glares. Her glare couldn't scare a bunny away.

" Do you know how bad this looks?"

" Oh please," Cersei ticks off, bored with the melodrama. " The man is barely in contact with Gregor. I mean didn't he _just_ make it to your wedding and leave without even saying goodbye?" The validity of her point dissolves some of the worry from Sansa's face.

" Yes, I suppose but-"

" So? This means zip. I'm sure he doesn't even remember what you look like." Cersei fingers the rim of her empty martini glass, her eyes scanning the bar in a preying sort of way. Her search is for a bedmate.

Sansa wishes she could agree with that point but some odd prickling in her gut argues otherwise.

She remembers as clear as if it was yesterday Gregor's brother being at the wedding. He was quiet, withdrawn almost, and had the belligerent scowl of a prison inmate. He didn't have to say the words. **_Fuck Off _**was written all over his face. He was wearing all black than too. Black shirt, tie, the works. But nothing was as dark and predatory as his stare and the leisurely once over he gave her when her new husband, half drunk, introduced them.

The scarred side of his face was blatant like the pink flush that overcame her from head to toe wherever his eyes touched. He didn't say congratulations or bend to kiss her cheek which was usually standard…he just glowered. One corner of his mouth twitched and she made the mistake of watching, forgetting her courtesies. His fingers clenched at his sides as he if wanted to belt her, but there was no malice in his returning gaze. Just something tangible and raw she couldn't put a name to.

She remembered Gregor pushing her towards the other guests; the moment between them passing like turning a page in a book.

The reception was one big party of dancing and drinking. There wasn't a person in their seats by the end of the night. Except Sandor. He stayed over by the bar, on his fifth Guinness. Not that she was counting, but she couldn't seem to break away from wherever he was. And now that she could look back with total clarity neither could he.

There was a force of nature at work. His coal black eyes penetrating, like a finger in an electric socket. She felt helpless under the magnetic pull. Every few heartbeats she would wait, hold her breath, turn and there he would be. His hooded stare a heated current against her exposed skin.

She didn't understand her reaction and before she could muddle through the inner workings of her body he was gone. There one second and vanished the next. Never to be seen or heard from again.

Until now.

Forcing herself back to reality, Sansa bites at her lip in contemplation." What should I do?" Her primary goal is to not act out of character. Maybe there was no love loss between him and his brother, but blood was blood and she did not want to start a war or stir the pot.

Cersei's eyebrow hooked. " Um, act like an adult."

" Cer."

" Put your big girl pants on and suck it up. You ran into your estranged brother in law. So what. Go over, give him a good old- fashioned Clegane welcome and let bygones be bygones. Their war is not your war. Besides," her green eyes twinkle as she appraises him up and down, " the longer I look at him the more attractive he's becoming. Is it just me or are his hands extremely manly?"

" 0h my god. You are the worst friend ever." Sansa grumbles, mildly serious. Biting down on her gums, she fixes her wrinkled suit with a swipe here and there and tries to tuck the loose ends of hair back into her bun.

" Will you stop…your hair actually looks better messy. This isn't 1955 and you're not Doris fucking Day. Give your anal compulsiveness a holiday please."

Instead of listening Sansa sticks her tongue out. Her petulance riding over her embarrassment with the situation. " I'm going to the bathroom. Don't, I repeat, _don't _do anything that we will both regret."

" I'm wounded," she holds a hand to her heart. Sansa is already walking away when Cersei yells, " We're still getting you laid tonight. Let your hair down girl. Men don't fancy the stick in the mud look these days." She glances back to see Sansa trip over the leg of a barstool at her friend's very in character declaration.

Now...on to the next candidate.

The cool water is a god sent to her fevered skin. She dabs the remaining moisture at the back of her neck, leaving some to keep her body cool.

She wipes most of the makeup off her face save for the mascara and eyeliner, which is a pain in the ass to get off. Doting a bit of moisture onto her chapped lips, Sansa still is not satisfied with her appearance. Younger now. Like a girl playing dress up.

At least she doesn't have any bruises to worry about covering up_. _

_Big girl pants_.

Ugh.

Sometimes Cersei could make her madder faster than anyone on this god- forsaken planet. Here she is already battling one huge problem-her ass of a husband- and now she has to deal with Cersei playing matchmaker.

Glasses in place, Sansa inspects the reflection in the mirror and grimaces. She _does_ look like a librarian.

Oh well.

Balling up her paper towel she throws it in the trash and makes for the door.

The door swings open just as she is pulling at the handle and she trips back against the garbage pail than into the wall at the brute force that stampedes its way through without apology. What the…

Black combat boots stop in front of her.

Standing before her is the very man she is dying to avoid. In the girl's bathroom no less. Could her luck be any worse? The bar is packed, overflowing; she could have come and gone without his notice, but of course…unless.

Cersei.

That piece of shit.

Impossibly tall, Sansa has to crane her neck to get a proper look at him. His hair is cropped short, five o'clock shadow that's about a week old on his face and a toothpick hanging at his lips like a cigarette. He says nothing, the rise and fall of his chest and vertical stance the only evidence to suggest he is as alive as her.

She pretends to be surprised to see him. Acting was never one of her gifts but her choices are limited. " Sandor," she smiles warmly. " It's good to see you."

Silence echoes between them. His presence is everywhere in this two stall twenty foot coffin. He doesn't seem to pay mind to the quiet. It suits him like its part of his clothing.

She could do without the piercing intenseness though. She has the urge to scratch her skin. He seems on the brink of something, a wild man about to be let loose from his cage. He bites the inside of his cheek like he is contemplating what to say. He goes with her name, " Sansa," and leaves the burden of conversation at her feet.

Great. " How are you?"

His scoff is as dry as the crackle of a dead leaf. " About as good as you I would say."

His words come at her so fast she reels inside for understanding and an answer to match. Shaking her head she trips out, " What..." than thinks better on starting down a road she can't go. " I'm good, thanks."

" I didn't ask." And he appears mad about what she has said. Polite pleasantries are not his thing. She can empathize with that struggle. Shaking hands and plastering a smile on like some goddamn beauty pageant contestant isn't exactly her idea of a good time.

" Oh …well…I hope all is well with you," she glances at his chest, wishing to explore no further than his shoulders. His chest is wide, like the door he came barreling in on. His skin is tan from outside labor, muscle bulges over his arms, across his shoulders and chest; _this_ brother is all man. And from outdoor work. Something tells Sansa that he didn't attain that physique from going to the gym five days a week.

She gulps audibly. Maybe looking at his chest isn't such a good idea.

" Is that all my sister in law has to say after two years of not seeing me?" The baritone of his voice ripples like the pleasure of an unforeseen kiss.

Her blush is furious and merciless against her milky white skin. Mocking her very goal. Damn it. He's enjoying watching her. She sees his hand stretch at his side, like a tickle under his skin he's been trying to ignore for years. The air around them thickens and he gains even more of an edge by moving closer.

Her bones are wet sand. " You don't have much to say yourself Sandor." Her whisper is petal soft and she licks her bottom lip, witnessing the darkness of his eyes completely eclipse.

" How is my brother?" He grounds out the word brother like a curse.

The huff of breath from her nostrils leaves little to the imagination. " Still your brother."

His one hand comes up to lean against the wall beside her. " That isn't much of a consolation for you than."

He twirls the toothpick back and forth across his lips. " I'm a big girl. I can handle myself," she replies emotionless, transfixed on the toothpick.

" Gregor doesn't need handling. Death is the only thing that bastard deserves and even that should only come after many hours of beating and blood."

So there is no love loss between the two. " You two aren't close I get that-"

" He's the fucking devil girl. And you're a fool to stand here and defend him if he-"

" If he what?" She awakens now, her glare forceful but miniscule against the giant size chip on his shoulder. " I wasn't defending him," she argues, defensive as a cornered kid. " You haven't been in our lives for more than two minutes and than you come here and pretend to know our marriage and what's going on. Don't you think that's a bit ballsy?"

Chucking the toothpick, Sandor leans in, satisfaction beaming like a shooting star across his face. The heat emanating from his stare could start a fire in her black -laced hip hugger panties.

" I thought you were a fighter, couldn't be sure until just now. But I was right. My brother's got a goddamn wild cat on his hands."

" Excuse me?"

His two fingers, twice the size and thickness of hers, loop around a piece of fallen hair from near her ear. The calloused tip of his thumb traces her lobe accidently as he studies the lock like it's an obscure museum artifact. " Never seen quite a color like this. Always wondered if you had the personality to match such a red."

The side of his thumb slides gingerly at the line of her jaw. Her breath comes out a shaky tangled jumble. She breaks the emotional fog with words that have been lost for years down somewhere inside her. " I try to be a good wife," her eyes dart between his "…I try." She nibbles her worries away on her lower lip.

He is caught between her mouth and eyes. " You can't try with Gregor. He'll break you down every way you turn."

He knows. She searches him for mockery or some cruel joke but all she senses is the connection that has just been forged between them. He knows because he has been privy to the same torment.

Toe to toe now his other hand comes up as well, blocking her in, forcing her to break and drown where she stands. Hands that look as if they could destroy and end a life are warm and solid, delicate in discovering every slow inch of her. She is saying things she shouldn't be.

" I'm tired of trying," she wants to surrender, but this is wrong.

She has to be stronger. She has to walk away before she does something she will definitely regret.

His one thumb is on her chin gliding down the center of her throat and back again. Over and over, reeking havoc in the spot between her legs. A shiver cascades down her spine in repetition with his ministrations. Her eyes flutter shut as he speaks to himself more than to her. " I knew you were different. From the second I laid eyes on you," he bites out harshly and for some reason she likes it, "….You didn't belong with him."

One of his hands rips at the bun that took her an hour to do and in a blink of a second her hair is tumbling down in waves at her sides, bobby pins pinging to the floor as they both stare breathlessly at one another.

Naked hunger seeps from his unapologetic glare. Sandor backs away, never taking his eyes off of her as his fingers click the lock of the bathroom door. Before she can inhale he is in front of her, looming over, bringing himself within an inch of her face and the very promise of what she knows will happen next if she doesn't open her mouth and stop this.

" Sandor…"

His fingers bury themselves into her hair, gripping fistfuls as he leans into the crown of her head. His quivering husky voice like a shot in the dark to her frailty, " Say my name again."

Confused she mutters nothing…

" I want to hear my name coming from that mouth." And now it would seem that he is at her mercy. Never would she think that a man such as him would be begging to anyone.

She is biting her lip not to cry out a betrayal that would wreck her life even worse.

So she shakes her head. Holding her breath, not trusting herself to speak at all.

Gripping both sides of her he nudges her legs open and leans in guiding their fronts bluntly against each other. His erection is hard and straining through his black jeans. The surge of his body heat shoots through her as he teasingly rubs himself against her. He gently kisses her earlobe then pulls back to speak. She can tell he is barely holding on. " Tell me to stop and I will."

When she says nothing he grasps her hair harder. " Tell me you don't want this and I'll walk away. Like nothing happened."

Shackling her hands around his thick wrists like manacles, her eyes dart between his two black indefinable orbs.

He rubs his clothed cock a little harder against her this time. Little does he know she hasn't had sex in over a year and he is rubbing right where her clit is. The friction is sweet fucking agony.

" Please…" she whimpers out.

" Please what?" His hands tighten in her hair.

" Please," he won't make another move unless she says it," please…don'tstop."

Like a tiger catching his game unaware, he takes her mouth so quickly, so smoothly she melts instantly into it all, becoming one with him and the kiss. His lips feast ravenously on hers, his tongue aggressive but soft as he draws her in with each crest and fall of their mouths.

She is trying to straddle him and he finalizes the move by gripping her ass with both hands and squeezing her tightly against him, locked like a vice. Her hands are in his hair, her nails raking against his scalp, his beard, his neck. She can't stop touching him. The feel of is his skin is addictive. Firm silk. He must sense her desperation and he matches hers by ripping his shirt over his head.

Sinking his teeth into her bottom lip her whimpers are frantic, hot breathy puffs against his face, driving him stark raving mad. Words spill from her but none of them can be understood as he slips one hand between them and stealthily unbuttons her pants.

Their noses bump and bend against each other's as their kisses grow careless and greedy. Open and abandoned, Sandor kisses her with his whole body. A lifetime of kisses in one simple swoop of lips. His direct gaze, never leaving her, that alone making her wet. She uses her hips to shimmy the pants down to her ankles as he unzips his jeans and lowers his briefs just enough to get inside her.

His cock springs out from him.

_Oh my_.

He is bigger than her husband.

There's a bang at the door and someone on the other side is yelling for entrance but neither of them stop to acknowledge them.

Leaning the weight of his body against hers, their mingled breaths giant in the small space, he lays his cock flat and hard in the corner of her thigh as she nudges herself higher, securing her ankles more tightly against his back. Taking the base of it in his hand he teases her entrance, circling her hole than caressing her clit softly. She instinctively widens her legs for access. Her mouth is gaped open, her arms clawing at the wall above her, wanting the feel of him filling her now.

Grabbing her backside he sinks into her. Not completely. Not yet. Slow deliberate moves to let her know he's there. She gasps, stunned but impatient for more. He is not so willing to comply as he drags each glide of his hips out and in, stalking her every reaction. After a few more languid strokes they easily find a rhythm, the slap of their skins together a slow steady undulating beat.

God help her.

She fucking wants it. The pace is so smooth she could come right here but she doesn't want to just yet. Sandor reads her thoughts even though his face is buried in her neck now and he places her higher, the angle causing the front of his shaft to brush against her clit, a slight bare brush that causes a guttural moan to rip from her lungs.

Soon their rhythm is quickening and he is bucking into her, clutching at the underside of her thighs for more. He wants all of her. His hands, his face, his cock demand it.

" God." She moans. And the bangs at the door grow louder.

" You like that?" He goads into her ear darkly. The slap of his cock into her wet cunt deafening. " Say it," he demands, his two fingers slipping around her clit.

"Wha-"

" Say it." He growls harsher, lapping at the bud so agonizingly slow she thinks her teeth will break from the pressure.

Her jaw locks in place, as he pistons in and out of her, long hard thrusts that make her feel each and every facet of his thick cock. Light bursts behind her closed eyes and a wave crashes and drizzles down her body, inside over and over her. Her face brightens red and she pants as he digs into the flesh of her ass. She is a slave under his spell as she utters his name, " Sandor."

He is right behind her. Two long hard pulls of his dick jerking in and he bites at her neck, groaning. Catching his breath, his legs are shaky for a moment before he completely goes weak against her body. " Fuck," he grounds out.

Both their foreheads are sweaty as he leans his against hers. Their chests are heaving, his fingers indenting into her shoulders as he does a shitty job of composing himself.

Sansa stills. Unable to form a coherent word but "Sandor-"

" WHO THE HELL IS IN HERE?! Open the goddamn door!"

Sansa is ripping at her pants to pull them back up. Her glasses are fogged. Her hair probably resembles a jungle forest. She peeks a look at Sandor as he zips up his pants. She cant read his expression and that further unnerves her.

What the fuck did she just do…?

Licking her fingers she pats down some of the frizzes away, but before she can make any progress his large hand is encasing her wrist, keeping her in place.

" Don't."

She stutters him a quizzical look.

" I like it like that." He states simply, the low timber of his voice is like a lap of his tongue at her g spot.

Unfurling her. Again.

She smiles small and returns to fixing the bustled mess of herself. Eyeing herself in the mirror quickly, panic begins to ebb at what has birthed right here in this room.

The banging grows louder and she hurriedly cleans the spots of fog off her glasses, not noticing how still and contemplative the man next to her is.

She is about to walk past him when he grabs her elbow, forcing her to stand in front of him. She doesn't want to hear that this was what he wanted. She doesn't want to hear that this was a mistake they can never make again.

" Come with me." He says the words so easily, like this was his plan all along, but there's also a weight tied to them. Buried far down, lost and now suddenly found.

Split between a rational adult decision or riding off the impulses she has been clinging to, she shakes her head no and answers him. An unintended smile crosses her lips so fast she doesn't remember even thinking it. " Yes."

And she takes his hand, following him. Where, she doesn't know, but than again, that doesn't really matter to her right now.

She wakes up with the weight of a tractor-trailer on her. She's naked as the day she was born, laying on her stomach, legs spread eagle and her body sore from a night in bed not sleeping.

Rubbing her eyes mercilessly, she tucks her chin into herself and grabs at the blankets that are near her knees. The sunlight is peeking through the blinds and the brightness makes her wince.

She feels hung over even though she knows that is not what this is.

Switching to her other side and away from the obnoxious sun, she peeks a look at the plain red numbers on the desk clock next to the bed.

Her glasses are right where she left them. Her arm blindly reaches out and finds them, knowing they are as necessary to her as her underwear, whose location is questionable at this point. Placing them lopsided on her face she freezes as she reads the time. The digital numbers blare out 8:30am and Sansa goes numb. She is royally fucked.

Great. Not only did she singlehandedly light a match to her marriage but she is probably going to be reprimanded if not suspended at work now. Work starts at 9 am and there is no way she is going to make it home to shower, dress, and commute twenty blocks in time. She can't wear her clothes from yesterday because Sandor ripped her cami in two when they had barely made into his apartment.

She needs water.

Her mouth is parched. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

She lost more fluids than she can recount. A simple glass of water would be an encouraging sign to her crappy start.

She huffs out an agitated breath. This isn't her. This isn't the type of thing she does. But than why did it feel so right to leave with him. Taking his hand and following him out of that bathroom, that bar, was like coming home, to a place she always wanted but never knew she could have.

" Hey."

Leaning against the frame of his bedroom door, Sandor is quiet. Emotions tucked away neatly. All impervious male and she is instantly nervous. In a good and bad way.

Eased confidence exudes him. Where she is on edge he is as cool as ice and just as hard to get grasp. His hands are folded over his chest, one leg crossed over the other. A ghost of a smile on his lips. The man is thoroughly pleased with himself.

She wants to roll her eyes or better yet throw the clock at his head but none of those things will erase her actions of last night…and early this morning.

Four times.

Four freaking times.

Straightening her glasses, Sansa turns over, pulls the blankets up until just her bare shoulders are peaking out." Hello." Her voice sounds funny to her ears, too formal to a man who had his tongue in between her legs just three hours ago. She turns the color of a flowered rose at the remembrance.

As if he can read her thoughts, his face becomes rigid like stone, weak restraint holding his actions in check.

Tentatively he comes to sit beside her on the bed. She doesn't trust him or more accurately she doesn't trust herself with him. So she sits up straighter, shifting so everything is in place. Propriety is still achievable if she could just make some sense of what to do next.

He places a glass of water on the end table that stands beside the bed and she can tell he is stifling a grin now. " What?" she shoots out, angry and hating how childish she sounds.

He shrugs easily. " It's not like I haven't seen you naked…"

" It doesn't matter," she cuts through like she's scolding him.

Sandor's having none of it. " Every which way of you," he taunts. If his goal is getting under her skin he is winning by a landslide.

Her nostrils flare defiantly. " Happy? Great. Now can you leave so I can get dressed and get out of here."

Not impressed, his lips purse in a vague unreadable way that makes her fingers curl into a handful of sheets. " You can go."

She nods agreeably. Than blinks unsure at him.

" But you'll be back."

She pushes hard at the glasses on her face. Sansa knows better than to fall for his obvious bait. He wants to get a rise out of her so he can…can what? He's had her, what mystery is left? Why was he at the bar? Was it a set up, has he always wanted this here…her…them together?

The only words that she can formulate without dry heaving onto the floor is

" You don't want this."

At first she isn't sure he has heard her. He shows no sign he means to respond. His hands are clasped together loosely, dangling from his lap and she is blatantly staring. Cersei is right. They are manly hands…who knew just looking and knowing the very things he did to her with them could make her wet right there where she sat.

" I want you," he lowly rasps out.

" No …you can't. You don't." His admission ricochets through her brain, settling somewhere in her chest. She crackles out a question without much forethought." Since when?"

Again he is pensive. Careful. This isn't a man who wears his heart anywhere near his sleeve. His rancor voice breaks past some sort of barrier. " Since I first saw you."

The underlying pride in his answer coupled with his now mercenary appearance exceeds any so -called confession.

She even senses a slip of resentment toward her for making him go there. She doesn't care though. She's in this boat with him. Sink or swim she wants all the cards out on the table. " Why…why me. I'm m-married-"

He glares at her, hatred tearing at his features, one that has her teeth snapping shut with a click. " You think I give a shit."

" I-I…" She is trembling, holding the sheets like they have the ability to resist

the traps he is setting. " Sandor…"

" I want you. All of you. Every lush perfect inch," he spits out, grabbing her shoulders, leaning in closer. " This, here, is fucking real. More real than any goddamn paper that says your married to Gregor."

No one's ever talked to her that way. Gregor is cruel. But entirely cruel, his words as cutting as his tone. Cersei delivers her truths with a sort of harsh bounce, but there is care underlying each and every syllable. Whether Sansa follows her advice or not, Cersei is there, thick or thin, good times or bad.

Sandor is…is what…all hard planes and soft angles. There is one night of experience between them, not enough memories to fill the page of a diary but, now, watching him, removes all doubt. The truth of his feelings is palpable in the wake of his admission.

Her fist unclenches in release and her fingers inch over to where his lay, right between their two tense bodies. She slides her hand between his and he makes no effort to finish what she is trying to start.

" We have a lot to figure out," he roughly announces. She smiles his way but he is unmoving, deathly serious. Suddenly she knows he means her marriage to Gregor and she locks up, letting him go and folding back up like a scared clam being circled by a shark.

She doesn't get very far. Sandor is quick, easily predicting her stonewalling and he latches on to her retreating hand, dragging the pad of his thumb over her knuckles.

" When you're ready." The rise and fall of her body speeds up. She should want to jet out of here, but when she gazes at him, she sees no pressure, no timing to his request. He is not his brother.

Sansa wants to smile at the relief that floods her but she doesn't. She's afraid. Afraid to screw this up. To try. " I-I-"

His head is down, staring at some nonexistent nothing on the wood floor. " I know what he must have done to you. I know him."

Reflex kicks in and she's withdrawing, pulling at their clasped hands, but he won't have it. " Don't," he says as if the thought physically bruises him.

" Don't do that."

The stillness crowds them. She doesn't want to talk but some ignored emotion elbows for freedom. This is where her trademark shutdown makes an appearance and she places some sturdy mask on or creates some character to play like putting on a costume. None of it is her. She doesn't even know who she really is without the identity of wife or daughter attached.

The rough side of his thumb is swishing at her knuckles in a comfortingly hypnotic way. She doesn't want to run from this.

His hand squeezes warmly around hers, feeling almost like his arms wrapping around her body, before he pulls away and states simply " I'm making some breakfast. Come out when you want." He doesn't smile or say the subject is officially dropped. Being as consistent as a weather prediction Sansa isn't sure what to expect as he walks out the room with only a gleam of his eyes as her assurance that everything would be okay. He is not stopping this, here, and he doesn't want her to either.

She doesn't even have time to process what happens. Whisper of a Thrill, her ringtone, is blaring from somewhere on the floor. She doesn't know how her cell phone got there and she doesn't want to. Wrapping the sheets around her she bends down and finds her Iphone underneath Sandor's bed.

Dear lord in heaven.

With mild exertion and a few accidental slips of her sheet she finally reaches it, the cell says Cersei is calling and Sansa swipes the unlock bar hastily,

" Well, hello there. _Friend._" She hates how happy sounds. She was going more for hostile but it seems an impossible task at the present time.

" You little slut," Sansa can vividly picture Cersei's cheshire cat smile spread wide. " I knew you had it in you."

Her cheeks bloom scarlet like intimate writings painted on her skin. She is at a crossroads. Gush away or let her suffer. She goes for the unspoken third choice. " I'm gonna kill you. How could you tell him to come into the bathroom…I can only imagine what you said to-"

" Whoa whoa…what the hell are you talking about?"

" Cer, give me a break. You don't think I know what you did." Her elbow is on her hip. Attitude winning out in her tone. She isn't even mad. She should be squealing an incoherent thank you, but her pride has nasty timing. " I'm not mad, I just want the truth," she tries to rectify.

There is a clearing of her throat before the blonde decides to squash the mystery, " I didn't approach him San. I swear on a stake of bibles. I never went up to him." There's a pause before she continues haughtily, " Honestly I thought you couldn't handle someone one like him. I was going to hook you up with Jon."

Yeah ok. " Why would you do that when you have a thing for him?" she accents the end in a tease that she knows will make Cersei dig her nails into her skin.

" You're a bitch…and I hate you." Her tone holds a smile.

Her best friend will never admit it and Sansa isn't going to push her luck, at least not today. " I love you too dearest."

" Now," Cersei pushes the issue of Jon away and settles in for the kill, " the more important question is… how good was it?"

" Cer. Please. Stop." She bites down hard not to grin. Cersei can smell weakness within a city mile.

" You know I'm not going to stop until you tell me. I can just see you now grinning like some dumb fool from a Nicholas Spark's movie. Now freaking spill."

Sansa hears the floor near the bedroom entrance creak. Awareness tingles the air, swirling like an invisible tornado. She shrugs her shoulders,

" Adequate."

" What?"

Biting her gums, Sansa fidgets with the urge to be herself and puts on a more Cersei- like stance. " I was fine. Pretty much what you'd expect."

She's not buying it, " Adequate? Fine?"

" Mhm," Sansa confirms, the floor creaking again. Louder and closer this time. " I gotta go Cer. Call you later." And Sansa hangs up before she can change her mind.

She will definitely call later. After all Cersei is the one who inadvertently got them to the place they are in.

But, well, some things are just no one's damn business.

Besides, for once, she likes having the upper hand.

Sansa smiles, hugging the sheets tighter around her. The kitchen sink water is running, the air smells like bacon, and some eighties band is playing in the background. Her stomach gurgles in response as she turns…. suddenly very hungry.


End file.
